Why Memories Matter

It might happen upon you like a gentle breeze, a brush across contented face, a knowing sigh and exhale of understanding and peace. It could arrive like an intruder, catching you unaware, a breath lodged at base of throat, a frozen silence wedged between the question mark and the answer. A loved one's dying words, a message quaking the soul. Or an image flits across the mind, one that you've already memorized for future reference, only you don't know the why. It's in the soft folds of transparent petals, the smell of freshly mowed lawn, a song that stills movement, a millennium of chances and histories and dances. A patchwork quilt sewn together with pieces of fabric from clothes once worn in high school and you never understood the reason for the individual squares, until one day you see the story unfolding across the bed. A quote by Margaret Therkelsen, I think she understood the why I want to clutch the tender recollections: "Our God loves to come; He wants to come forth in us, to rise up in us in all His beauty." It is the rising that causes that catch of breath, a third glance at exquisitely written lines in a delicious book, an ear picking up a bird's sweet trilling song. He rose and continues to rise with each precious memory that blankets our thoughts. A mind quilted with tendrils of grace knows the past and present weave together, and the need to understand in the moment is unimportant. What matters is the deep trusting, the naked, blind trust that good has already won and the light will eclipse our most sorrowful memories, most painful snapshots hanging on display in bruised heart. The daring to believe that He thought of me on that day so long ago, a brilliant light that holds the dark captive, it enables me to take that next step forward, feet that scissor across the pattern He already laid out. Each memory washed clean, each moment bathed in grace, each opportunity a chance to let go and let those hands do the work only He was meant to do.

 

 

Who You Are

Today is her birthday, this granddaughter of mine, her two-year-old self growing big. Her socks are pirated from auntie's suitcase, colorful argyle snug up above knee caps. A smile and pink shirt that says yes-it's-all-about-me-today. Purse dangling from hand, a thought for the future girl she will be when legs stretch taller and eyes open wider to whole crazy world. What words could I say to small one that plants funny looks on her face, laughs silly and hunts for dark chocolate in closed cupboard? Garnering up all wisdom gleaned, squeezing eyes shut in super-concentration, the word balloon above my head shines like rescuers flashlight aimed straight at the missing. If you ever get lost, you will be found. Glancing once again, I take in her wide grin and sparkling eyes. If you can, try not to ever leave home. But in case you do, remember, the beam of His light will find you always, leading you safely back. When her face masks comical and inexperienced words tumble forth all novel and pure, innocent child please stay in that place. Don't ever leave that funny self behind or sell the laughter for sake of pleasing, don't loose sight of what you love, and chocolate is sweet and tastes like heaven. I build that story inside, a storage war of words that glimmer with truth, that childlike faith is what keeps feet planted on home ground.

And here is the secret I have learned, practiced and penned, the giving thanks, for nothing and everything, for pain and sorrow, lost toys, Doc McStuffin and birthday parties. Giving thanks in all will settle your fears, calm your elfin heart, and keep you on path if you have only one shoe. Thank you God, for this precious one and maybe sometime I will tell her myself what I heard the day of her birthday, what the word balloon had to say and the love that ticks in my heart for toddler girl.

#103 Skyping with granddaughter on her second birthday

Count the graces, start over and count again. As legs grow longer, feet rooted deep in truth, ready yourself for every chance to give those gifts away. And don't ever forget, this is who you truly are; You are loved.





 

Ancient Ruins

A number of years ago, my husband and I journeyed through red rock country around Sedona, eager to explore ancient ruins. Under canopy of azure blue sky, warm air draping our bodies, we hiked up rock cliff, red dust caking bottom of shoes, we strove toward the site, upward to Native American cliff dwelling. Pausing occasionally to catch breath and to pray for deliverance from panicky fear of heights, I pinned gaze toward goal, a castle of sorts nestled in small hollow in the side of a thin ridge. A deep desire to witness first hand the housing for those who lived so long ago, in such a primitive way, propelled me forward, fear grounded below. I wondered at the pictographs, drawings etched with primitive hands, fingers never to tap a computer keyboard or turn a key in the ignition. Did they fall on slippery rocks dampened with rain? Were they frightened when fevers struck and Tylenol had no name? Today I marveled at the sun singing high above, wide open arms welcoming turn of season, and how a baby cries same as yesterday and we might not be any different than those cliff dwellers. Edwin Hubbel Chapin wrote: "Not in the achievement, but in the endurance of the human soul does it show its divine grandeur and its alliance with the infinite God." The calling upward, past failures and mistakes ground to fine dust, regrets burned to smoldering ashes, fixing eye on the goal, taking next step, prayers for grace and strength to keep the moving on. I had sat on edge of flat rock, gaze sweeping verdant greenery and red rock vista, crystal blue horizon causing breath to catch in way that says I-made-it-here-for-just-a-time-as-this. A pictograph, an ancient text message amid the ruins, pinging out words in drawings, yes-I-was-here-too.

 

 I have asked one thousand ways for God to take my pain away, and I am not Paul and have to keep re-learning that ancient secret of contentment. With each brave step into unknown territory, trusting Him to shelter me, I catch firefly glimpses of that cache. It's there beneath old cobwebs of fear and He is drawing it out, painting a picture so divine I wonder if that is a place I can finally call home. Where the past is left amidst the ancient ruins, and all that remains is the divine grandeur of the beautiful.